The Witcher: A Tale of Destiny

The Wolf's Path

Geralt rode through the winding forest paths, the heavy cloak of nightfall descending around him. The hooves of his trusty horse, Roach, clopped steadily on the dirt road as the wind whistled through the trees. The air was thick with the scent of pine, moss, and the faint, metallic tang of a nearby river. His senses, heightened beyond those of an ordinary man, caught the faintest rustle in the underbrush.

A contract had brought him to this remote corner of the Continent. Villagers in the nearby hamlet of White Orchard had spoken of a beast—a large, menacing creature that had been preying on livestock and travelers alike. They were terrified, offering up their last coins to any who would rid them of the monster. Geralt had accepted the contract, as he always did, without emotion or hesitation. A Witcher's work was never easy, but it was necessary.

As the path narrowed, Geralt guided Roach through a dense thicket, arriving at a clearing near the edge of a cliff. Below, the village lay quiet, its few lights flickering in the distance like stars fallen to the earth. The wind howled louder here, carrying with it the faintest trace of something foul—a scent that only a Witcher could detect.

"It's close," Geralt muttered to himself, dismounting and tightening the straps on his silver sword, the weapon specially designed to slay monsters. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the land, scanning for any sign of movement.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered near the treeline—a hulking figure, its outline distorted in the pale light of the crescent moon.

The Beast of White Orchard

The creature leaped from the shadows with a guttural roar, its massive form crashing into the clearing. It stood at least eight feet tall, covered in matted fur, with claws the size of daggers and glowing yellow eyes that burned with primal fury. A fiend—Geralt recognized the species immediately. These were cunning beasts, more dangerous than any ordinary predator, driven by bloodlust and the call of the hunt.

Geralt drew his silver sword in a single, fluid motion, his body reacting as though the blade were an extension of himself. The fiend charged, its claws outstretched, but Geralt was faster. With a swift pirouette, he dodged the creature's attack and struck with precision, landing a deep cut along its side.

The fiend howled in pain, staggering back before regrouping and launching another assault. This time, it feinted, swiping low at Geralt's legs. The Witcher narrowly avoided the strike, rolling to the side and casting a quick sign—Aard. A burst of telekinetic energy exploded from his hand, sending the fiend tumbling backward.

But the fight was far from over. The fiend was resilient, and its bloodthirsty rage only grew with each wound. It circled Geralt, eyes gleaming, as if calculating its next move.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The forest held its breath, the wind ceased, and time itself stretched as man and beast sized each other up. Then, in a blur of motion, the fiend pounced once more, but this time Geralt was ready. He slid beneath the creature, his sword flashing in the moonlight as it sliced cleanly through the fiend's exposed belly.

With a final, pained growl, the beast collapsed to the ground, its life force draining away into the earth.

Geralt sheathed his sword, wiping the sweat from his brow. The fight had been brutal, but he had won. Another monster slain, another contract fulfilled. As he began collecting the fiend's head as proof for the villagers, his thoughts drifted to his next destination. But before he could mount Roach and ride off into the night, he felt a strange pull—a sense that something was watching him, waiting.

Destiny, it seemed, had more in store for Geralt than a simple monster hunt.

The Law of Surprise

Days later, Geralt found himself in the court of Cintra, summoned by Queen Calanthe herself. The grand hall was filled with nobles, knights, and courtiers, all eager to witness the spectacle of the famous White Wolf. Geralt, however, was less than enthusiastic. He preferred the wilderness to the stifling confines of royal courts, but duty had brought him here.

"Your Majesty," Geralt said with a respectful bow, his voice calm and steady.

Queen Calanthe sat upon her throne, a regal figure with piercing eyes and a sharp wit. "Witcher, I hear you've come to claim the Law of Surprise," she said, her tone laced with curiosity.

Geralt nodded. He had saved the life of a nobleman, Duny, who in gratitude had offered the Law of Surprise—an ancient custom where one promised something they did not yet know they had. In this case, it was revealed that Duny and Princess Pavetta were expecting a child. Unbeknownst to them, that child would be bound to Geralt by destiny.

"The child belongs to me by right of the Law," Geralt said, though his heart was heavy. He had no desire to take a child from its parents, but Witchers lived by their oaths, and destiny was not something to be denied.

Queen Calanthe's gaze softened for a moment, then hardened once more. "And what do you intend to do with this child of destiny, Witcher? Raise them as one of your own?"

"I will protect them," Geralt replied simply. "That is all I can promise."

Before the Queen could respond, a commotion erupted in the hall. The doors flew open, and a group of soldiers entered, followed by a cloaked figure.

The Child of Destiny

The figure threw back their hood, revealing a young woman with silver hair and striking green eyes. It was Pavetta’s child, but not as an infant, as Geralt had expected. No, this was a young girl—one who had been shaped by the chaos and war that had consumed the Continent in the years since her birth.

"I am Ciri," the girl said, her voice firm despite her youth. "And I know who you are, Witcher. I've been waiting for you."

Geralt studied the girl, feeling the unmistakable tug of destiny once more. This was no ordinary child. She carried with her an air of danger, of potential, of something ancient and powerful.

"I am here to take you to Kaer Morhen," Geralt said. "To train you, protect you. There are forces at work that would see you used as a weapon. I will not allow that."

Ciri's eyes flickered with a mix of fear and defiance, but she nodded. She had no choice, and neither did Geralt.

As they left the court of Cintra behind, Geralt felt the weight of the future settle upon his shoulders. His path was no longer his own. He was bound to Ciri, and she to him. Together, they would face whatever the Continent threw at them, for better or worse.

Blood and Steel

Training Ciri was no simple task. She was quick, agile, and fiercely intelligent, but also headstrong and impulsive. Under Geralt's tutelage at Kaer Morhen, she learned the art of swordplay, the use of signs, and the ways of monsters. But more than that, she learned what it meant to survive in a world that would never accept her for who she was.

Each day, she grew stronger, her connection to her latent powers becoming more evident. But with that power came danger, as forces across the Continent began to stir. Emperors, kings, sorcerers—all sought the child of prophecy, the one who could change the course of history.

As war loomed on the horizon, Geralt and Ciri found themselves hunted by enemies on all sides. It was a game of blood and steel, where loyalty was a currency and betrayal a certainty.

Through it all, Geralt remained Ciri's constant—her protector, her mentor, her father in all but name. But even he could not protect her from everything.

The Wild Hunt

One fateful night, as winter descended upon Kaer Morhen, the Wild Hunt came. A group of spectral riders, feared across the Continent, they sought Ciri for her power, intending to use her to breach the veil between

worlds and bring chaos to the land.

The battle was fierce, with Geralt, Ciri, and their allies fighting against the Hunt with every ounce of strength they had. But the Hunt was relentless, and Ciri's powers began to spiral out of control.

In a desperate bid to protect her, Geralt made the ultimate sacrifice, confronting the leader of the Hunt head-on. The clash was brutal, and though Geralt managed to fend them off, he was gravely wounded.

As the Wild Hunt retreated, Ciri knelt beside Geralt, tears streaming down her face. "You can't die, Geralt. Not like this."

Geralt's voice was faint but resolute. "I won't... not yet. But you must be ready, Ciri. Destiny will always find you, no matter where you hide."

And so, their journey continued, with the threat of the Wild Hunt ever looming in the distance, and the weight of destiny pulling them toward an uncertain future.